


who tells your story?

by owilde



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Dialogue Heavy, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Past Suicide Attempt, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Possibly offensive slurs, Swearing, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:18:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7468710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owilde/pseuds/owilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a silence, as Newt returned to scratching his ankle.</p><p>"I tried to kill myself, a year ago or so. Jumped down from the maze wall. Broke my fucking leg, that's all it did for me." Pause. "Can't even bloody kill myself right, can I?"</p><p>Thomas said nothing for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	who tells your story?

**Author's Note:**

> This features a lot of open discussion about mental health and self harm, please don't read if you might be triggered.
> 
> Un-beta'd, title taken from _History Has Its Eyes on You_ from Hamilton (i am obsessed okay).
> 
> I don't know, I'm tired and wanted to write some newtmas lmao it turned kind of angsty.

"What are you doing?"

Newt's head spun around quickly, his eyes locking with Thomas'. For a second he looked like he might make a run for it, his entire body tensing up. But then Newt relaxed back against the tree he'd been leaning on. "Tommy, hey," he breathed out. "Sorry, didn't see you coming."

"What are you doing?" Thomas repeated, his heart thudding anxiously. Newt had disappeared from the camp again, and this time Thomas had followed him. They needed to talk – even if Newt didn't think so.

Newt sighed, and signalled for Thomas to sit down as well. He did. The silence stretched on, before Newt broke it.

"I'm wallowing in self-pity and drowning in my past memories," he said with a bitter chuckle. "Nothing worth mentioning, Tommy, really."

Thomas' eyes lingered at Newt's fingers that kept scratching his ankle. "I think they're worth mentioning," he offered weakly. Newt's face scrunched up in discomfort, and he frowned.

"Honestly, it's nothing. Can we just let it go?"

Thomas shook his head slowly. "Something's up with you, Newt. I don't know what it is, but I'm worried about you. You've been spacing out, disappearing during the day. More often than not I wake up at night to see your bed empty." He paused, studying Newt's face. He was still frowning. "Please, just tell me. You can trust me, you know that."

Newt sighed again, and closed his eyes. "Bloody hell," he mumbled under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. "Alright, fine. You want to know, Tommy, then be my bloody guest."

There was a silence, as Newt returned to scratching his ankle.

"I tried to kill myself, a year ago or so. Jumped down from the maze wall. Broke my fucking leg, that's all it did for me." Pause. "Can't even bloody kill myself right, can I?"

Thomas said nothing for a while. He wasn't surprised; he'd heard the rumours. He'd come to terms with it best he could – there was no use in getting caught up in the past. He couldn't change it now, anyway. "Why are you doing that?" He asked instead of replying, pointing at Newt's fingers which were still clawing at his skin.

Newt paused, his fingers frozen in place. "Didn't realize I was doing it again," he muttered. "My bad." He removed his hand and let it rest on his knee; it remained there for a whole of ten seconds, before Newt muttered something under his breath and returned to the scratching.

"You didn't answer me," Thomas said, the word _again_ burning at his mind.

"Way to state the obvious," Newt drawled back.

Thomas sighed, closing his eyes for a brief second. "Why do you do this? Why do you keep closing yourself off from me?"

When he opened his eyes again, Newt had rolled up the right sleeve of his pants. Thomas' eyes zeroed in on the scars systematically filling his leg, ragged lines stacked on top of one another. As Newt kept scratching, the skin turned more red from the irritation.

"They get itchy," Newt said quietly.

"Why?"

"Well I don't bloody know, I'm not a doctor– "

"I meant, why do you do that?"

Newt closed his mouth, looking down at the ground. Around them, the leaves rustled. "No one's ever asked me that before," he admitted after a while.

"Do many people know, then?" For some reason, Thomas didn't want them to know. He didn't want to imagine Newt showing his scars to anyone else, or telling his story like it was a practiced speech. He wanted it to be just him, a secret that connected him to Newt in a special way. _You're fucking sick_ , a voice whispered in his head. _Might be_ , he whispered back.

"You," Newt said simply.

"And?"

"And no one else. Fuck's sake, Tommy, did you expect me to voluntarily go 'round telling the rest of the boys what a fucking lunatic I am?"

Thomas frowned, pressing his lips to a tight line. "You're not a lunatic, Newt. Don't say that."

Newt chuckled humourlessly. "Then what exactly am I? I can't be _normal_ ; normal people don't cut themselves with glass shards and stolen knives because they want to feel something. _Normal_ people don't throw themselves off a wall because that pain wasn't enough. Normal people don't feel numb and empty all the time, do they?"

"You're not normal," Thomas agreed. "But you're not a lunatic. You're just– you're _you_."

A sceptical brow disappeared under Newt's hair. "I'm just me? That's the worst piece of help ever, Tommy, seriously– "

"You're pretty," Thomas interrupted. "You're smart. You're a brilliant leader, and tactical, and your hair looks soft."

He stopped, before he could embarrass himself any further. Thomas felt his cheeks flush – had he just called Newt _pretty_?

Newt couldn't seem to believe it either. "What the hell?" He asked, quietly. "You think I'm– " He stopped before finishing the sentence, biting at his lip. "If this is some kind of sick fucking joke," he started angrily, "because I'm queer– "

"You are?" Thomas interrupted him again, his brows flying up in surprise.

Newt looked incredulous. "Of course I am." He frowned. "Didn't you know?"

"No," Thomas admitted. "I thought…"

 _I thought I was the only one_.

"You thought what?" Newt asked. There was something softer in his voice now, and when Thomas looked up, he'd stopped the scratching.

"Thought it was just me," Thomas finished honestly.

Newt looked at him silently, eyes trailing across Thomas' face. Then his mouth quirked into a half smirk.

"You're into blokes, then?"

"Them, too."

Newt nodded. "Just blokes for me, but you do you, Tommy."

The following silence wasn't uncomfortable. Thomas looked up just in time to see a few drops of water land on his face, before it started raining lightly. Neither of them made any effort to move.

"How does it feel?" Thomas asked suddenly, causing Newt to look at him.

"What?" He asked sharply.

"To, you know," Thomas gestured at his legs. "Do that."

Newt didn't answer immediately, looking at the scars. Then he shrugged one shoulder. "Doesn't feel much like anything. Or at first it does, it feels like– like I'm properly existing, you know? But then when that fades, it's just... nothing."

Thomas hummed. _Don't intrude anymore,_ the voice whispered in his mind. _You already crossed all the lines._

"When did you last do it?"

 _You fucking idiot_.

Newt looked reluctant, then rolled up the other sleeve as well. The lines there were much redder, Thomas noticed, and a line of dried blood connected them.

"Yesterday," Newt said simply.

Thomas said nothing.

Newt sighed in frustration. "Look, I don't want the rest of the boys to know. Or Teresa. So can you just, not mention this? To anyone?"

"I won't say a word," Thomas promised.

Silence.

"Can I touch the scars?"

"No."

"Alright."

More silence.

"Can I kiss you?"

A hesitant pause, then–

"Yes."


End file.
